He closed the lookup page on his phone. He didn’t need to know its dollar value. He already knew its worth.

He googled that.

Inside, the air smelled of camphor and old wood. The guitar was a Gibson—a J-45, he guessed, though the finish had checkered into a million tiny roads on a faded sunburst top. Its neck was straight, its bridge slightly lifted. It was a ghost that could still sing.

He turned the headstock toward the bare bulb. Stamped into the mahogany, just below the "Gibson" crown, were six digits: .

March 1968.